


Don't You Put Me On The Backburner

by writerchick0214



Series: All These Things That I've Done [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Clint has a cane, First Dates, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, M/M, PTSD, Phil still works for SHIELD, Soldier Clint, The Avengers will make an appearance soon, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-29
Updated: 2014-01-29
Packaged: 2018-01-10 12:24:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1159725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writerchick0214/pseuds/writerchick0214
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a terrible appointment with his doctor and physical therapist, Clint is looking forward to his date with Phil.</p><p>Too bad things don't go as planned</p><p>This is an ongoing series. Ratings, tags, and warning will change as it continues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't You Put Me On The Backburner

**Author's Note:**

> Wow! Thanks to everybody who has commented, left kudos and read in general. I wasn't expecting such enthusiastic responses. I'm glad most of you are enjoying this different side of Phil I've decided to explore. While I see him being self-conscious about his looks, that man is pure competence. He's strong, intelligent, the best at his job, and he knows it. He's not going to in your face bold, he's also not going to fade to the background.
> 
> Thanks to TheSparrow for telling me not to hate everything I write.
> 
> I've actually put quite a bit of research into all medical aspects of this story. But I'm not a doctor and have no medical background so nothing is going to be perfect.

           Clint gripped the edges of the examination table until his knuckles were white, breathing deep and long in an attempt to stay calm. Pain was shooting from his hip to his knee but that fell to the background as anger began to consume him. He felt weak and helpless, news that he would probably never walk without a limp hitting him like a bucket of cold water despite the fact that he had already guessed that. In six months his leg _might_ start feeling like his own again, and in a year he _might_ be able to walk without a cane; the ‘mights’ were driving him crazy, and the doctor’s reassuring smile before he left the room only made Clint feel worse.

            “Mr. Barton?” A nurse asked after knocking on the door, peeking his head in. Clint nodded, and the nurse entered the room. “Dr. Rank prescribed a new medication and wanted me to go over it with you before you left.”

            “I don’t need any more pills,” Clint said, his words more harsh than he had intended. He kept his eyes on the nurse’s shoes.

            “Dr. Rank said you’ve still been having some serious pain, despite your current medication, so he wanted to suggest Neurontin. It’s nonnarcotic, and can be used to help treat nerve pain. We still want you to be taking the Oxymorphone and the Dilaudid regularly but the Neurontin should help with any stiffness and will help you sleep.”

            Clint looked up then and the nurse grinned, trying to look as pleasant as possible. His gaze flickered up and down Clint’s body with something akin to pity but he remained professional and polite throughout his entire explanation. He continued to go over the side-effects and proper dosage but Clint was only half listening, fingers flexing loudly on the protective paper. Nodding when he thought appropriate, Clint blink owlishly at the nurse until he was finished, handing Clint a piece of paper with everything he had instructed and his new prescription before leaving. Clint sat there a while longer, wanting to throw his cane across the room in rage until another nurse finally came by to tell him the room was needed for another appointment. He only regretted telling her to go away until he stood and almost fell in pain.

         

* * *

   The Epsom salt bath helped minutely, hot water soothing his muscles only enough to not be in agony. After the stretches at the doctor and the long subway ride home, all Clint wanted to do was laze around in his sweats and sleep it off. Stretching, Clint groaned as something popped, sinking lower into the deep, bear claw tub. Phil had called two days before, asking Clint to meet him at a nice restaurant; Clint had googled it, finding it semi-formal but not pretentious and had agreed immediately. A few hours later the doctor had requested a change in appointment to go over Clint’s most recent x-rays, stressing the urgency. Clint should have rescheduled with Phil, should have known how much pain he’d be in after the appointment, but hadn’t been able to bring himself to. Partly because he didn’t want Phil to think he wasn’t interested, and partly because he was looking forward to it.

            Now, mere hours before Clint was supposed to be at the restaurant, he was almost debilitated in his bathtub, completely fearing when he’d have to move again. He felt better while he bathed, laid out comfortably in the water, heat easing and soothing his aches but he knew the second he stood the pain would be back. He eyed the numerous pill bottles on the bathroom counter, fingers itching to grab for them, almost desperate to allow himself to take them. But he didn’t-he resisted-and in the end, he respected himself more for it. He’d been through pain before and had survived, and he could do it again.

          Levering himself out of the tub was a challenge, lifting with his arms as much as he could to minimize the weight put on his lower body. Once Clint was standing it grew easier but every step hurt, the pressure growing and growing until he felt almost as bad as he had before the bath.

         He looked in the mirror and hated what he saw; his eyes were red-rimmed and slightly swollen, from exhaustion and from pain, and his skin had lost the deep tan it gained while overseas. He raised a hand to swipe at the fogged mirror, wincing when his reflection became clearer.

            Clint shook his head in resentment.

* * *

            Clint was late, out of breath, and covered in a thin sheen of sweat. He stopped outside the door of the restaurant to regain his composure, bracing himself on the brick wall to take some of his weight off his bad leg. It helped, if only a little, until he was ready to face Phil. He tried to hold himself straight and confident when he told the hostess he was meeting someone, reservation for Coulson, but his small grin fell when she said the other party hadn’t arrived yet. She led him to the table anyways, eyeing his cane curiously as she told him the waiter would be there soon.

            He browsed the menu while he waited, nervously smoothing his hands over his dark wash jeans and blue button-down. The waiter was nice but Clint could tell he was getting impatient, coming back every few minutes for Clint’s order.

Clint pulled his phone out and hesitated, not wanting to seem needy. He opened and closed it, noticing Phil was now almost an hour late, so he dialed and held his breath. It rang and rang but there was no answer, only Phil’s simple voicemail instructing him to leave a message. “Hey, Phil,” he started, keeping his voice neutral, “It’s Clint. Just calling to check in, make sure everything is alright. Yeah-just, call me back.”

For the next twenty minutes Clint was left staring at his phone, tapping his fingers on the tabletop while trying to assure his waiter that his date was, in fact, coming. The longer he sat there the more the waiter looked doubtful, and Clint had to agree. After three glasses of water Clint knew Phil wasn’t coming. Struggling to his feet, Clint left a hefty tip and avoided looking at the other diners, not wanting to see the looks of pity he knew were being thrown his way. Unfortunately Clint’s body was stiffer than it had been in a long time and maneuvering out of the restaurant was proving to be a challenge, and he ran into the busboy’s cart so hard a few dishes fell to the ground. He apologized profusely and left as fast as he could, nodding at the hostess on his way out.

            As soon as Clint was home he slumped against the wall, rubbing tiredly at his eyes. They burned with sleep and something he didn’t want to admit, becoming wet in the corners until he pushed everything down. Dinner turned out to be a frozen dinner on the couch in a soft pair of sweatpants and his oldest, most comfortable Army shirt. He dimmed the lights and turned on _Scrubs_ , catching up on all of the episodes he had missed while enlisted. It was well past midnight when he started dozing, stretched out on his couch in a position that was comfortable now but he would regret it the morning. He couldn’t bring himself to go to bed.

* * *

Clint jerked awake, yelping in pain when he almost fell off the couch. His entire left side was tingling with sharp, stabbing pain and his heart was pounding, but something else had woken him. Clint fumbled for the Beretta M9 on the table in front of him, blinking sweat of his eyes. It took a few minutes to realize he was at home, in his apartment, and was most definitely alone. There was knocking at his door, however, and a quick glance at the clock told Clint it was 1:20 in the morning, long after it was normal for visitors.

            “Who is it?” Clint shouted, voice rough and grainy with sleep.

            “It’s Phil,” the person on the other side of the door yelled back, “Phil Coulson. I’m sorry it’s so late, but could you open the door?”

            Clint cussed quietly, hoisting himself upright. His cane had fallen during his flailing and was just out of reach, but he managed to grab it with a pained cry. “Clint? Are you okay?” Phil asked.

            “Fine,” Clint responded, slowly making his way to the door. “Just-” he winced, biting his tongue. “Just give me a second.”

            Phil didn’t respond so Clint took his time, limp prominent. The closer he got the angrier he grew, so when he finally reached the door he yanked it open so hard it banged against the wall. “What?” he snapped, tired and sore and not in any mood for excuses.

            “Hi,” Phil said. He looked almost exactly how Clint remembered him but his tie was slightly askew and there were heavy, dark bags under his eyes. “I know I’m probably the last person you want to see right now, but I wanted to explain in person why I wasn’t there tonight.”

            Clint leaned against the doorframe, regarding Phil coldly. “You couldn’t call?”

            Phil held up his phone, broken into numerous, tiny pieces, with a sheepish grin. “I would have, but as you can see my phone is kind of no longer in service.”

            “What the hell happened?” Clint asked, moving aside so Phil could enter. He closed and locked the door, expecting Phil to say something about the three extra deadbolts he had installed, but no remarks came.

            “There was an emergency at work,” Phil explained, standing awkwardly in the middle of Clint’s living room.    

            “Make yourself at home.” Clint waved a hand at his couch. It took him twice the time it took Phil to get there, and even longer to lower himself onto the cushions. Phil waited patiently the entire time, not once offering assistance, but always looking ready to give it if Clint asked.

            “So,” Phil continued, “one of the interns lost a client’s account. The _entire_ account; all of his personal information, every single statistic and number we’ve ever crunched. It was all hands on deck to regain and redo his resume.”

            “Wow,” Clint said, rubbing at his leg without realizing he was doing it, “being an accountant sounds kind of dangerous.”

            Phil chuckled lightly, still looking like a kicked puppy. “You could say that. He’s one of our biggest clients. If we hadn’t procured his lost file not only would be lose him, we’d also be liable for a lawsuit.”

            Clint nodded, feeling less angry and more curious. He could tell Phil wasn’t telling the whole truth, wondered if the lie should concern him, but relented to the fact that he wasn’t being completely truthful either. Every man deserved their secrets. “And your phone?”

            “The intern may have dropped it and then stepped on it when retrieving it for me. I don’t have your number memorized yet, so I had no way of reaching you. So I just came over.”

            “Yeah,” Clint sat up, looking back to where he had set his Beretta, “About that…how did you know where I lived?”

            “Oh.” Phil sat up straight. “Your address was on your pill bottle. The one you set on the table at the café? I just remembered it. I’m good with numbers, you know?”

            “That’s kind of creepy, Phil,” Clint chuckled. “I’m not sure if I should be worried for my safety, or flattered that you were paying that much attention to me.”

            “I promise I’m not a serial killer,” Phil offered, smiling again. “And I promise I’ll actually show up for our next date.”

            “Who says there’s going to be a next date?” Clint leaned back, cocking an eyebrow. He didn’t care that he was probably a mess, hair probably sticking up in a million directions and damp with sweat.

            Phil seemed to melt. “Well, of course I’ll understand if you don’t want to, but I must admit, I was hoping you’d say yes.”

            The living room was dimly lit, the only light coming from the moon filtering in through the thin, purple blinds and the soft glow of the television. It was quiet, even the traffic outside barely audible, and Clint realize for the first time how close he and Phil were sitting. “You know,” Clint said quietly, “we could just watch a movie here, order in from that pizza place down the street that’s open ‘til four am. Call it even?”

            Phil seemed to perk up then, lifting his hands to straighten his tie. “Can I use your phone? Dinner is on me.”

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know what you think!
> 
> Things will begin picking up soon. While most installments will probably remain under 3,000 words, I'll be updating pretty regularly. 
> 
> Yes, Phil lied and Clint can tell something is going on. Clint is smart but like stated, he's going to let Phil have his secrets. For now. As their relationship progresses he's going to become more suspicious about Phil's "accounting" job. 
> 
> The rating will probably be bumped up to M or E during the next installment, due to violence and/or sexual content. 
> 
> Feel free to send me any requests or suggestions. I have a vague idea where this story is going, but things can always be thrown in!


End file.
